Miscommunication
by PurgatorialHearts
Summary: Since the beginning of the Apocalypse, Castiel has watched Dean become cold, calculating - inhuman even, and it makes his skin crawl. When the news of Bobby's death reaches the camp, he tries to save the last dregs of humanity Dean may or may not have left, but what he finds is more than he can stand. seizing his only initiative, can Castiel bring back the 'Old Dean?


The year was 2014.

The world had gone to pot - as did the Fallen Angel, Castiel; and as the world came to an end, Cas found his patience sprinting towards a similarly cataclysmic end whenever his once-charge sauntered into the room.

Dean Winchester: the righteous man, the Hunter and the chosen one who unwittingly screwed destiny to this literal Hell, was being a terminally self-righteous pain in his ass. Castiel was beginning to feel his skin crawl when this _stranger_ passed through the doorway. The familiar green eyes were dull and no longer the emerald spheres he used to make a point of gazing into whenever they spoke – or used to speak. They didn't _talk_ anymore, they conferred. They were pure business and it was sickening. Castiel had had enough time to let his mortality sink in since he fell – he even embraced it (if being perpetually stoned could be classified as acceptance.) Dean, on the other hand, had become almost inhuman in the short period when the world was overrun with demons led by Lucifer wearing his younger sibling's skin.

Sam had said yes in Detroit, just as the Devil had foretold.

Since then, Dean had been stuck in a downwards spiral of obscene alcohol intake, violence, recreational Croat-killing and one-night stands with members of the limited female population of the camp, which inevitably caused an irritating number of bitch-fit outbreaks between said women - not that Dean had the emotional capacity to care.

Dean wasn't a man any more, he was a shell, and Castiel could see straight through him. He was broken. One more Earth-shattering revelation would blow apart his brittle soul like glass and then he'd inevitable crush every emotion known to him to dust, become a mere machine, a weapon in the midst of the Apocalypse, set out to spill whomever's blood he saw fit just to claw his way to the Devil for revenge.

So, when the news of Bobby's death reached the camp, Castiel sprinted to Dean's cabin in seconds. He needed to console him. Save him before he obliterated the remaining bare minimum of his humanity and recklessly decided to embark on a suicide mission soaked in blood and tears.

Cautiously curling thin fingers around the brass knob, Castiel caught his breath before twisting the metal and shouldering the door open as calmly as he could as the apprehension and adrenaline shot through his body and shook his bones. He adopted his common stoic look and stilled himself before stepping into the room.

"Dean?"

The floorboards creaked under his weight when he crossed the threshold into the dull gloom of the cabin, nostrils filling with the smell of damp wood and rusting metal. The only source of light a lone candle on the desk-top, scarcely illuminating Dean's hunched form seated in front of it. Thankfully, the sun hadn't completely set, which gave Castiel enough light to see the whole of his body sat stiffly on the sturdy wooden bar stool, arms moving back and forth to various clicks and clacks.

His gun.

Castiel swallowed the panic rising in his throat and shook sense through his half-baked daze. It was time to sober up.

"And what are we cleaning our guns for, valiant leader?" He asked, voice heavy and quieter than he'd intended as he shuffled his way across the room to stop by Dean's shoulder. The hunter didn't look up.

"What do you think?" Castiel tensed. "I'm cleaning it so it doesn't get jammed, and so I don't get my skull bashed in by Croats." Dean answered stiffly, voice low, cocking the now fully-assembled weapon and brandishing it in the candlelight.

Castiel sucked in a breath. Might as well bite the metaphorical bullet. Did Dean even know?

"Dean," He began slowly, easing his tone into something more comforting, "there's been some news. Bobby is dead."

"I know."

Those two words threw him. "I know."… _"I know"?_ Castiel looked down at Dean, his eyes flaring then settling on Dean's cold irises which remained glued to the shimmering steel of his gun. The familiar sensation of spiders crawling underneath Castiel's skin struck him with renewed vigour; there was something so_ wrong_ with Dean it made his heart clench and his blood boil in protest to the man's icy demeanour.

"You – Well… Are you okay?" He probed carefully, watching the gun twist and glimmer.

"I'm perfectly fine." Dean growled indignantly, placing the gun down on the wooden surface and rising from his seat. Castiel stepped out of his way as he crossed the room and opened up a dusty cabinet, reaching in and extracting a full bottle of whiskey. Twisting open the lid, Dean swigged a hefty mouthful before dropping the neck of the bottle onto the rim of a glass and pouring in a generous helping of the contents. Castiel watched his every move, actively trying to stop his lip curling in disgust. He was "_perfectly_ _fine_" was he? Every word he uttered lately seemed to bury the 'old Dean' further into Cas' memory.

He'd reached his wit's end.

Arm tensing and fingers curling, Castiel followed his gut instinct and punched Dean across the jaw, jolting his head to the side on impact and causing him to drop the glass he held in his hand. As Dean caught up, Castiel took the second in between to throw the Hunter to the floor and pin him there; straddling his hips and pushing his wrists to the floor, Castiel bore down on him.

Their faces now inches away, Dean wore an unnerving stone mask. He couldn't hide the anger that bubbled in his eyes, however, and the slivers of betrayal that weaved through the green as he looked up at his companion whose face was animated with scorn and rage.

"Got something to say?" Dean tested.

There was a loaded silence before Castiel let loose.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Dean? Bobby's _dead_, and from the looks of things you couldn't care less. What happened to you? Where's the Dean that would be in a tirade? Who would be holding in the tears, putting up his front? Where's your resolve, your_ desperation_? You are so… _inhuman_, I can hardly stomach it. Where's the old Dean? Because right now you are not the man I fought through forty years of Hell for."

Dean held his gaze. He wasn't struggling and he wasn't denying anything Castiel had said. The room plummeted into silence.

"That all?" Dean said finally.

Castiel sucked in a sharp breath and held Dean's wrists tighter. "It's not a crime to let yourself feel something at the end of the world, Dean." He snapped.

Dean sneered at this and his eyes lit up with resentment. Castiel found his breath hitched in his throat as wave of relief washed over him – Dean wasn't totally gone. He had some fight left in him yet.

"Why would I _want_ to feel anything? I'd rather be a shell than this _wreck_." Dean spat, "I wish I couldn't feel a damn thing, but you know what, Cas? I can. And it all hurts too much to put into words. First I lost Sam, and I was too fucking stubborn to say 'Yes' to you dick-bag Angels because I had too much pride; I regret that every single day, and I feel that unbearable_ weight_ on my shoulders twenty-four-seven - not that you'd notice through that drugged stupor you're in half the time. You didn't _care_. And now I've lost Bobby, but I don't have the common decency to lift that gun to my head and pull the trigger. This wasteland is entirely my fault. I'd rather have half the planet, my brother, you, Bobby – than this _shit-hole_."

Castiel had been completely fazed. He released his iron grip on Dean's wrists enough to let him tug them free and bring them to his face, rubbing away the first tears he'd shed in months with calloused hands before bringing one palm to his throbbing head and exhaling, tension falling from his shoulders, Castiel still hovering above him.

He couldn't think of any words to console the man who shook silently beneath him. "I'm sorry, Dean." Castiel breathed unsteadily, depending on guilt laden words to soothe the man pinned beneath.

Dean coughed out a harsh, cynical laugh. Castiel could hardly breathe, his chest constricting. Dean was right - he hadn't been _there_ for him. He'd been too caught up in himself; too selfish; too blind to see that Dean was slowly dying inside through all of what Cas had thought of as their shared trials, but that was a lie, too. He'd been seeing an illusion; they'd been living different events, and he'd been coping with the easier reality through a veil of medication. It wasn't fair. He'd been so _stupid._

Castiel slowly rose to his feet, Dean slipping himself out from underneath him as soon as he could manage before shakily standing to face him. Piecing together every bit of courage he had, Castiel lifted his eyes from the floor and looked at Dean directly, searching his revived green irises for signs of contempt. He wouldn't blame him. Looking closely, though, Castiel was confused to find there wasn't even a hint of derision in the deep emerald; instead, Dean looked calmer and more relaxed than Cas could remember.

"Dean, I've been selfish and I'm sorry… I hope you can find it in you to forgive me, although I don't deserve it. If you can't, I understand."

Castiel swallowed the lump in his throat, eyes widening slightly as a small sincere smile spread meekly across Dean's face at the apology.

"There's the Castiel I know." He said, voice barely over the volume of a whisper before he drew the man into a tight hug, tucking his face into the shorter man's neck when Castiel held him close.

Bunching feeble hands into the worn fabric of Dean's jacket, the tension seeped from the room.

Both were re-assured they weren't alone.

They'd found each other, who were once lost in the midst of a soul-crushing war.

It was going to be okay.


End file.
